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I have always liked poetry ever since the first day I could understand how to read. Am I a romanticist or just a dreamer? I can not stop reciting in my head Wordsworth ‘s To a Butterfly and My Heart Leaps up’. I also particularly love the verse

The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

I remember the first days I read that poem, I could not make heads or tails of what the great poet was saying. However, it soon gradually became like a part of me as I could never put the book down.

Sometimes, I often find myself, when in an utter state of solitude dreaming of those long gone days when I was a little boy playing in the forest.I often go wondering back to days of my youth. Chasing birds…

Like this:

In the greyness
and drizzle of one despondent
dawn unstirred by harbingers
of sunbreak a vulture
perching high on broken
bones of a dead tree
nestled close to his
mate his smooth
bashed-in head, a pebble
on a stem rooted in
a dump of gross
feathers, inclined affectionately
to hers. Yesterday they picked
the eyes of a swollen
corpse in a water-logged
trench and ate the
things in its bowel. Full
gorged they chose their roost
keeping the hollowed remnant
in easy range of cold
telescopic eyes…

Strange
indeed how love in other
ways so particular
will pick a corner
in that charnel-house
tidy it and coil up there, perhaps
even fall asleep – her face
turned to the wall!

…Thus the Commandant at Belsen
Camp going home for
the day with fumes of
human roast clinging
rebelliously to his hairy
nostrils will stop
at the wayside sweet-shop
and pick up a chocolate
for his tender offspring
waiting at home for Daddy’s
return…

Praise bounteous
providence if you will
that grants even an ogre
a tiny glow-worm
tenderness encapsulated
in icy caverns of a cruel
heart or else despair
for in the very germ
of that kindred love is
lodged the perpetuity
of evil.

Like this:

HANG TIME CAPITAL BUREAU – Free-agent forward Chris Wilcox has been cleared for full-court contact, his agent said Monday, as the 29-year-old attempts to resume his career after undergoing aortic surgery last March. Wilcox had been playing well for the Boston Celtics as a reserve when the team’s doctors noticed what the team called a “significant” enlargement of his aorta. As a precaution, Wilcox was shut down for the season and operated on at the Cleveland Clinic March 29.

Doctors performed what is known as a “Modified David” procedure, in which a graft was attached to a small piece of Wilcox’s aorta to prevent it from enlarging further after he finishes playing. There was no valve replacement or bypass procedure performed.

Wilcox’s cardiologist, Dr. Matt Hook, of the Wake Heart and Vascular Associates in Raleigh, N.C., cleared Wilcox for full contact in the last few days. Wilcox has…

Like this:

Hamlet:To be, or not to be, that is the question:Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troublesAnd by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,No more; and by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause—there’s the respectThat makes calamity of so long life.For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of th’unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovere’d country, from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the will,And makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pitch and momentWith this regard their currents turn awryAnd lose the name of action.

Macbeth

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,And then is heard no more. It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.